Easter Island

by Jennifer Vanderbes

  “He’s quite agreeable. In fact, he barely speaks,” said Elsa, recalling the sad fact that Alice had been able to teach Pudding only a few words—bird, kiss, superior(their father’s favorite adjective), andAlice —the words Alice thought essential.

  “My dear Miss Pendleton. I would never think to separate Alice from her beloved pet. I myself am quite fond of animals. And I have even lived amongst peoples who worship them as gods.”

  “I would just like for you to be perfectly clear,” said Elsa, “as to Allie’s situation before any permanent—” She stopped, not wanting to sound too distrustful, too calculating.

  “Before arrangements are made?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “I understand. Before you accept my proposal you would like to ensure Alice’s protection. Yes, Miss Pendleton, I can ensure that.”

  His words calmed her, and Elsa was thankful he understood her fears; but she knew her demands were a performance. She was pretending she had other options, that she might, if Edward didn’t accommodate her, refuse his offer.

  “But it’s much more than protection, Edward. It is respect I want to ensure. Alice is different, yes. Sometimes difficult to comprehend. But she’s much more intelligent than you suppose. She understands and feels a great deal she isn’t able to articulate in the way that you and I would. But she is really quite like us. Only her emotions tend to sometimes get the best of her.” Emotions, Elsa did not say, that come in the form of fits.

  “Some would say, Miss Pendleton, that emotionsare the best of us. If it is respect you are concerned with, I assure you, Alice has mine. In toto.”

  “Are you quite sure?” But as Elsa said this she sounded, even to herself, too insolent.

  Quietly, Edward offered, “Yes. . . . Quite sure.” But the words were tinged with discomfort.

  “Good,” said Elsa. “Excellent. Yes. We are perfectly understood, then.”

  Elsa glances down at Alice, still sprawled on the carpet, drawing slowly. Her large brown eyes, inches from the paper, swallow each detail of the emerging image. “A delicate beauty” is how their father described her, her features chiseled, the bones poised beneath the skin at graceful angles. Her face was a pale oval framed by thick brown braids. Since infancy, Alice’s behavior drew awkward stares in public. But when she turned sixteen, people began to stare before any peculiarity had revealed itself. Pulling open the heavy wooden door of their house in St. Albans, stepping into the bright morning sun, she could seem, for a moment, the loveliest of young ladies, mulling over, as she twirled her parasol, the gentle phrases she would use to decline her latest suitor. But then a curtain of dullness would descend. It was not idiocy, Elsa knew, nor was it a feebleness or weakness of mind; it was a disengagement. As Alice’s lower lip slackened, her eyes would seem lost, as though staring inward at some private thought, some personal theater, for minutes, sometimes an hour, until something—a spark in her mind, an abrupt noise beside her—flashed alertness back into her face, and she reawakened, stunned and eager. It was at these moments hysteria seized her. As her mind bounded back to the scents and sounds of a simple room, to the sight of familiar faces, Alice would mark her return with a squeal or a jump, sometimes stomping wildly on the carpet as her heavy braids flopped and swung, as if to celebrate a distance traveled, a place seen that no one, even Elsa, could comprehend.

  “Beazley!” Alice shouts again. In the dim room, her slim white hands, like two crescent moons, curl around the edges of the paper. In this picture, Edward’s brows converge in a violent V of concern.

  “Lovely,” says Elsa. “Shall we make another?”

  Elsa closes Edward’s book. Through the near-black windowpanes she can see the streetlamps have been lit, a necklace of gold along the dark line of Heslington Road. Several bicycles whisk by, and Elsa sees a white Rolls-Royce glide to a stop in front of a house on the corner. In their father’s neighborhood there was only one motorcar, that of Dr. Benthrop, who used it for emergency house calls. But their father, even when Dr. Benthrop offered him a ride, preferred his bicycle. It was one of his many theories—an indolent body resulted in an indolent mind. When the Ladies Humbers were first sold, he immediately bought one for Elsa and one for Alice, and insisted they cycle thirty minutes each day. At first Alice refused to mount her bike. Not until Elsa, seventeen at the time, cycled around Alice in clumsy orbits would Alice touch the strange steel frame. It took six months of Elsa running alongside, one hand guiding the center of the handlebars, for Alice to keep her balance. What excitement, though, when finally Alice could ride. Elsa loved their outings, cycling along the narrow streets in the late afternoon, stopping at the chemist for Father, Alice placing the small pouch of sassafras root or bottle of wheat germ oil in her wicker basket. As they rode home, Alice would shout from behind “I’m after you!” and then Elsa would cycle faster, sweat prickling from the roots of her hair. The momentum delighted Alice, and when she finally dismounted—cheeks flushed, eyes tearing from the wind—she demanded to know when they could go again. Almost every afternoon they cycled like this. But when Elsa left to take up her first position in Heidelberg, their rides ended. Alice was despondent. And in a letter from her father Elsa learned that Alice, frustrated she was not permitted to cycle alone, had thrust a hatpin into the tires of Elsa’s Humber.

  In the distance, a church bell sounds six slow gongs. Alice, her crayon clasped like a scalpel, appears to make slow incisions in the paper. Alice needs her; of that much Elsa is sure. It would be unthinkable to leave her in another’s care, to place her in a colony, away from the world. Too much like punishment for being different. And it would mean only that Elsa had not wanted the task of caring for her own sister. What she has chosen, a life with Edward where she can look after Alice, is best. And writing to Max, a necessity. Such is life, thinks Elsa. Such is fate. Choices are luxuries, and Max will have to understand that. How can I begrudge my own situation, thinks Elsa, with Alice here, a reminder, always, of how fortunate I am? I am fortunate, she tells herself. And a heavy-limbed resignation settles over her as she recalls the letter—Can I really ask for more?—as though persuading Max of her acceptance has finally solidified her own acceptance. Once he receives the letter, it will all be over, those distracting months left behind. How many evenings of one’s life could be spent lying awake in troubled speculation? Such nights were a symptom of a life without responsibilities—a life that ended when her father died, when she returned home and stood in the cemetery, clasping Alice’s hand. Only then did she understand how frivolous her former grief had been. As she stood before her father’s coffin, her eyes refused to dampen. When it was time to say the final prayer, she fell silent. Weeks passed. She could not cry; she could not speak of her father. The loss had lodged within her for good.

  And now, in the sitting room, Elsa thinks: There is not only this sadness, but there is Alice. And soon, a husband. She must banish all wondering about Max’s feelings, her own feelings. She must think of herself as an adult.

  The thud of the front door startles her. Edward calls from the hallway, “Good evening, ladies!” His voice is a strong baritone—a voice accustomed to lecture halls.

  Elsa rises, collects the papers from the carpet. “Beautiful,” she whispers as she rubs Alice’s back. “I shall add them to my pile.”

  Alice abandons her pout of frustration at the sound of Edward’s approaching footsteps. There is a great bustling outside the door, as though things are being tugged and tossed. This attempt at heralding his entry, thinks Elsa, is a bit extreme.

  “Beazley!”

  In the archway, Edward pauses. His hair is carefully combed, his beard clipped. He is tall and broad and a long black frock coat hangs tidily over his form. The weight of his satchel tilts him slightly to one side. “And how are my girls today?” Does he realize this also was their father’s nightly greeting? Edward has adopted many of their father’s mannerisms, prompting in Elsa the suspicion that their father asked Edward to do this, to rep
lace him.

  “We are quite well,” replies Elsa.

  It would certainly explain Edward’s offer. After so many years of bachelorhood, could the idea of marriage—and to Elsa, no less, who had not shown him a hint of affection in years—have been so tempting? If Father did ask, Edward would never tell. His decorum would prevent such a bald confession. But the possibility that she has been bartered discomforts her. Is this new life something laid out for her, something expected, as though her father had said,Elsa will fetch the tea for you, and she was now simply carrying in the steaming pot? Some thread of my own will, thinks Elsa, no matter how small, should be woven into my future. Even if I knew death was coming tomorrow, should I not be permitted to choose between poison and pistols?

  She crosses the room to meet him. “Welcome home, Edward.” Resting one hand on his elbow, and straining her face upward, she kisses him on the cheek.

  “Beazley!” Alice leaps up, her slender arms lassoing his neck. She pecks him with a series of kisses. “Beazley, Beazley, Beazley!”

  As she squeezes him, he stands immobile as a statue, a marble saint surrendering to an odd ritual of affection.

  “Allie, why don’t we let Edward sit and rest?”

  He slowly extricates himself from Alice’s arms, lifts the leather satchel to his stomach, and spanks it affectionately. “There shall be no resting. Not tonight!” From the bag he produces a thick roll of papers, unfurls one, and palms it smooth on the lacquered side table. A map. Of South America. His index finger, hovering in the air, stalks the web of longitude and latitude. But as his hand descends, Alice snatches the map and drives it, with a yelp, toward the center of the carpet.

  “Well!” he says. “It seems Alice likes the map!” Elsa takes the crayons from the carpet, shooting Alice a look of reprimand. Edward offers a mild but unconvincing laugh. His papers, particularly his maps, are dear to him. But scolding Alice seems, for Edward, unfeasible. Perhaps Elsa’s requests for understanding have worked.

  “Well,” he pronounces, “maybe Alice would like to be our navigator.”

  “Navigator?”

  “An opportunity has presented itself, Elsa. An opportunity to explore another, as you said, ‘wonderful place.’ A terra incognita.”

  “An expedition?”

  “The Society has offered a commission.”

  “Really? For us? Now?”

  “There is much preparation necessary, of course. Travel arrangements, equipment. It shall be months before we can depart. But, yes, my dear. If you shall consent to it.” With a wide smile he opens his arms to her. His severity, his composure, his awkwardness, slips from him. “Consider it, if you will, my dear, a very long and adventurous honeymoon. But only, of course, if you approve.”

  Elsa rushes forward, but on the periphery of his embrace she halts. “AndAlice ?”

  “She would come with us. I shouldn’t have it any other way.”

  A rose of excitement blooms within Elsa. A trip! She wants to ask where, but she must restrain herself—what if Alice refuses? What point is there in imagining a place she may not ever see? Go slow, she tells herself. Be moderate.

  “Allie dear, how would you like . . . to go on a journey?” Alice’s eyes lift briefly from the map. Elsa turns to Edward, trying to curtail her eagerness: “I must consider this carefully. How it would be for her. If it would cause her distress. My decision depends on a great many factors.”

  Edward’s hands plunge into the pockets of his coat. His head dips. “Most certainly.”

  Is he disappointed at her lack of enthusiasm?

  “It is her decision,” Elsa says firmly. “Or, the decision depends on her.”

  But what of Elsa’s own desire? From the street below comes the jangling of carriage wheels, the sharp crack of a whip. She glances around at the towering armoire, the thick curtains, the dull and heavy gleam of this new home, this new life. The map, a yellow rectangle of possibility, seems to call to her from the dark carpet.An expedition.

  “Allie, it would be a journey filled with bird-watching.”

  Alice glares at them both, eyes narrow with distrust. “Whatkind of birds?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. Cape pigeons, I imagine. And petrels, and albatross.” Elsa looks toward Edward, who nods. “Oh,” adds Elsa. “And parrots.”

  Alice, as though bored, twirls her braid. “Pudding is a parrot,” she says. She often speaks as though answering questions she has not been asked. “An African Gray parrot.”

  “Do you think that Pudding would like to meet an Amazonian parrot?” Elsa asks.

  “The Amazon is in South America. Pudding can’t fly to South America. That’s silly. There is a large ocean in between.”

  “You’re quite right,” says Elsa. “That’s very silly of me. But, you know, Allie, we couldtake Pudding there.”

  For a moment, Alice’s face goes limp, as though envisioning Pudding in a strange land, watching him fly from perch to perch, turning his gray face to the sun. Alice shuts her eyes, opens them again, and resumes her study of the map.

  “Allie, would you show me South America?” Elsa moves toward her. “On that map.”

  “Elsa, itis South America,” says Alice.

  “Chile,” calls Edward.

  “Very well. Show me Chile, Allie.”

  At this, Alice brightens and vigorously flattens the map as though trying to smear the paper into the carpet. “Sit down, Elsa. You have to sit down. So you can see.”

  Elsa crouches beside her.

  “Ready!” announces Alice, poking at the western edge of South America. “Chil-ee. Chil-ee. Do you see? Look, Elsa.”

  Huddling together, Elsa and Alice stare at the pink and orange and purple countries nestling one another, like particles clustered to a magnetic continental core.

  “Alice,” Edward says from above, “move your finger a tad to the left . . .”

  Alice’s small finger sets off from the coast, sailing slowly across the blue and empty Pacific.

  “. . . ah, a little more now. Farther, a tad farther.”

  Shadowing the Tropic of Capricorn, her finger navigates a straight course through the sea.

  Finally, Edward calls through the room, “There.” The word is his arrival at this imagined destination. “There.”

  Elsa squints at the speck of land and puts her arm around Alice. “That’s where we can go,” she says. “All the way there. All of us.” She can feel Alice’s breathing quicken. Alice has never traveled with Elsa; she has never left England.

  “Through theocean ?” Alice mutters.

  “Through the ocean, Allie. Just like Christopher Columbus. And Vasco da Gama.”

  “Like . . . Hernando Cortez?”

  “Like Hernando Cortez, Allie. And like Ferdinand . . .” Elsa lets the name hang in the air.

  Alice’s eyes widen as she realizes the game. “Magellan!” she booms, her braids slapping her neck as she twists.

  “And just like Captain . . .”

  “Captain Cook! James Cook!” Alice’s head now rolls in delight; giggles cascade on every side. And she then recalls her favorite joke: “No, don’t cook James! Don’t cook James!” Alice leans hard into Elsa’s shoulder, nearly pushing her over. She squeals, and tickles, and sways, her exuberance scattering like raindrops. “Stop it, Elsa! You’re being silly. Elsa, you’re being silly.”

  “Yes,” says Elsa, steadying herself against the force of Alice’s excitement. “I’m being very silly.”

  At this, Alice giggles even more, then catches her breath. The familiar curtain falls. Rocking in silence, she scrutinizes the map, and then, with great concern, looks up. “Do they have a ladies’ room?”

  Edward laughs, a genuine and hearty sound, the first that Elsa has heard from him. “I see I will have to make adjustments for the concerns of the ladies on this expedition.”

  “Yes, Allie,” says Elsa. “They will have some sort of ladies’ room.”

  “I’m allowed to go?”

 
“Absolutely.”

  “Through the ocean?!”

  “Yes, Allie.”

  “And you are going too? You will be there?”

  “Yes,” says Elsa, glancing up at Edward. “I will be there too.”

  Edward nods ever so slightly and his eyes flash with pride, acknowledging receipt of her consent.

  For a moment Elsa wonders if this whole scene—his question, her deliberation, Alice’s fervor, her answer—has been imagined by him beforehand, if Edward is not equally aware of her own strained pretense of freedom, and if he has not, in some way, been watching her with amusement. Could she, after all, have refused to go?

  “Goodness me!” says Alice. “Goodness, goodness, goodness. I must pack my bag.”

  A clap. Elsa sees that Edward’s hands have sprung together. Something like delight, or pleased confusion, sweeps his face. “Just a moment.”

  From the hall comes shuffling, the sound of tugging, and soon he emerges with a large trunk in tow. Brass hinges shine against the unblemished black leather. He drags it toward the center of the carpet, then disappears into the hall and returns with another.